


Wrong About Me

by GemmaRose



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Nightmares, Panic, Past Drift | Deadlock/Wing - Freeform, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GemmaRose/pseuds/GemmaRose
Summary: He's done it a hundred times, a thousand, maybe a million. Okay, probably not a million, but the point is this is far from the first time Wing has caught him trying to slip out of Crystal City.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock & Ratchet
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Wrong About Me

“Drift.”

He freezes at the voice, plating locking down as familiar footsteps approach from behind him, Wing’s field reaching out to brush playful admonition against his. He turns his helm slightly as the jet enters his periphery, optics drinking in the sleek lines of his frame. It’s familiar, this scene, this dance, but still his spark soars at the sight of Wing’s smile.

“Trying to escape again?” Wing teases, hand resting on the sword he doesn’t even have to draw to defeat Drift. “And here I thought we were making some real progress.”

Drift turns, the sinking feeling in his tanks intensifying as his arms fall to his sides. Why is he afraid? Wing won’t kill him, he’s too soft for that. Too _good_ for that. The worst he’ll get is a couple minor dents to his plating and a walloping one to his ego. “Did you?” he asks, turning to face Wing fully. He must be lagging, because his words don’t feel like they’re in synch with his lips. His processor feels so muddled, the world around them a blur. Wing is still talking but it just slides right over him. They’re practically touching now, Wing’s field wrapped around him, smothering him with a gentle press to _submit_.

“Come on, Drift.”Wing purrs, and Drift’s spark spins faster in its slivered casing as that gentle, familiar hand presses to the blank space where his badge should be. “Let’s go home.” he leans in closer, optics dim and field playful. Drift can’t see anything but Wing’s optics, can’t feel anything but his field, _affection promise **submit**_ pressing in on him from all sides. He can’t move, can’t vent, and yet his sword is in his hand, rising swift and true, plunging point first into the faint seam at the center of Wing’s chestplate. He screams, but his mouth doesn’t open as Wing convulses, energon splattering his mouth as his frame coughs air out every vent trying to dislodge what shouldn’t be there.

“It really is a shame...” he murmurs, Wing’s optics going pale.

“Drift...?” Wing wheezes, barely audible, and he _smiles_ as he meets those panicked optics, his own field surging cold around Wing, remorseless and sharp.

“That you were wrong about me.” he finishes, leaning in closer, the sword sinking deeper into Wing’s chassis. Energon coats his hands, paints Wing’s lips a lurid pink, an irresistible pull.

“Drift- wh-why--” Wing’s vocaliser stutters, and the laugh that slips from his vocaliser is dark like crude oil and twice as nauseating, slick and dirty in his intake.

“Not Drift.” he purrs, closing that last little space between them, glossa flicking out to lick the energon from inside Wing’s mouth, a mockery of the intimate moments Wing shared so freely with him. It’s his innermost, richer than anything, intoxicating as any battle high. Still, the name which passes his lips the next moment turns it bitter as poison on his glossa. “ **Deadlock**.” he purrs, and the light in Wing’s optics goes out.

\---

He flails upright, fuel pump pounding in his audials, spark spinning so fast the edges of his brand incision hurt from the corona battering them. He tumbles off the berth, tarp caught around his frame, and it’s pure motor memory that has his hand snapping out for the rubbish bin. He purges his tank into it in one painful retch, the burn of half-processed energon coming back up his intake just one more alert in the mess filling his HUD as he continues to dry-heave.

It’s been ages since he had that nightmare, since he woke up with the phantom taste of innermost energon and a name long dead haunting his lips. He dry heaves again, curling around the bin with a low moan as what feels like every system in his frame misfires in sequence. Something presses between his shoulders, just below the attachment point of his Great Sword, and he spins to his pedes as he puts distance between them. Or at least, he tries to. The tarp still caught around him catches underpede and dumps him on his back, and struggling only makes it wrap tighter, blocking his vents, sending his internal temperature skyrocketing.

A frame leans over him, grabbing at the tarp. It rips, and he’s free, and the hands that pull him off the floor are as familiar as the chest they pull him against, the field that meshes with his as easily as venting, the voice he faintly registers murmuring in his audial. One hand cups the back of his helm, keeping his face tucked against neck cables and armour plates that smell like dust and cheap solvent and antiseptic while the other rubs down his backstrut with firm, even pressure. He trembles as his servos unlock, slowly gathering himself up, getting his legs folded neatly and arms up to wrap around the mech holding him.

Ratchet, his scrambled processor informs him belatedly, the designation accompanied by a blurt of loosely associated data, antiseptic smells and safety and fragments of nightmares far older than Crystal City. Ratchet is the mech holding him.

Ratchet just saw him wake up screaming, void his tank into a bin, flip out and fall on his aft. He lets out a low whine and hides his face further in the junction of the medic’s neck and shoulder, frame trembling slightly as he fights his vocaliser back online. “Sorry.” he rasps eventually. Ratchet’s hands haven’t moved, one cupping his helm and the other stroking down his back, an embrace he could easily break free of if he wanted.

“For what?” Ratchet asks, and Drift’s processor blanks. “It’s alright if you don’t know.” Ratchet assures him, his subglyphs so matter-of-fact that Drift has no choice but to believe him. “You woke up mid-defrag, Drift.” he continues, his voice low and soothing, field steady and calm. “It’s going to take a klik for all your memory to be accessible. Just focus on venting, alright?”

Drift manages a shaky nod, and wraps his arms tighter around Ratchet’s chassis. He may be clinging, but he can’t bring himself to care. One by one, his systems settle back to baseline, alerts closing down as his frame registers the lack of threat. His processor unscrambles itself in fits and starts, and when he pulls back Ratchet lets him, though he still trembles slightly.

“Want to talk about it?” Ratchet asks, and Drift shakes his helm.

“Not-” he reboots his vocaliser, clearing the thick static from it. “Not right now.”

“Alright.” Ratchet nods, reaching out to pat Drift on the hand. “I’m here if you need me.”

Drift can count on one hand with fingers left to spare how many mechs haven’t been lying when they said that. Ratchet, thankfully, is one of them. “Thank you.” he nods, and moves to stand. The servos in his knees whine, but fail to engage. He stays kneeling. “I’m going to meditate.” he says, hoping Ratchet will take the hint. “Having a clear processor is even more important after one of these.”

“One of-” Ratchet’s optics widen, and Drift winces as he realizes his mistake. “Drift, how often have you been experiencing defrag disruptions?”

“I haven’t had this dream since I joined the Wreckers.” he says instead of a full answer. Ratchet gives him a Look, field flat and somehow threatening for it. This isn’t a question he’ll be dodging. “At least every third mega-cycle.” he admits at length, and Ratchet sighs.

“Well, at least you’re defragging more often than not.” he pushes himself to his pedes. Drift stays kneeling. “I’ll be in the berth, when you get tired of meditating.” he smiles, a slight little flicker of a thing that makes Drift’s spark ache in an achingly familiar way. “Seeing as how I just ripped our tarp in half, I could use a nice toasty speedster frame to help keep me warm.”

Drift flushes, and Ratchet chuckles softly as he returns to the berth, making himself comfortable. Checking his internal chronometer, Drift winces and centers himself. He’ll meditate, then take Ratchet up on that offer of cuddles if the mech is still awake.

**Author's Note:**

> Drift gets his cuddles with Ratchet, and in the morning (because it's like, 2AM) explains at least a little bit. The full explanation comes later, once he feels more secure in their relationship.
> 
> Inspired by [this comic](https://bmac413.tumblr.com/post/614700632587255808/) on tumblr.
> 
> Apologies to any not-logged-in readers, but due to an ex who refuses to leave me alone I have had to disable anon comments. Kudos are still open though, and if you want to scream (or would like me to write a fic for you) come check me out on Pillowfort! No account required to get my discord, and I'm always happy to chat. [[Link](https://www.pillowfort.social/GemmaRose)]


End file.
